FALLEN: A Dark Mystery Romance (LOVE IS WAR Book 1)

by Shayne Ford

  I pause for a moment.

  “Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  Silence comes from the other end as the woman ponders.

  “No...” she says hesitantly. “Was I supposed to?”

  I breathe out a soft chuckle, trying to de-tense the atmosphere.

  “No, no. Have you replaced the flowers in my office by any chance?”

  A few seconds slip by.

  “I, um... No, not exactly. I tossed the flowers in the garbage. Was I not supposed to? They were wilted.”

  “Yes. They were. I wanted to do it myself, but I forgot about them.”

  “That was it. I cleaned the desk, and put the empty vase back on.”

  My pulse starts racing.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am. I tried to move as quietly as I could so that I didn’t wake you.”

  “And there were no other flowers in my home when you arrived.”

  “No.”

  She sounds baffled.

  I pause for a few moments, my pulse throbbing in my ears.

  “Have you...?”

  I clear my throat. Twice.

  “Have you seen anyone around the house?” I ask with a shaky voice.

  Her answer comes promptly.

  “No.”

  “No??”

  “I mean... I talked to Mr. George when I cleaned the stairs. And, um...”

  She seems to be musing over something.

  “And?”

  “A man stopped by, right after that.”

  My heart leaps to my throat.

  “What man?”

  “A young man. He was wearing a dark coat.”

  “Have you seen his face?”

  “Mmm... Yes, I think so, but I don’t remember his face. He had an envelope for you.”

  “For me??”

  “Yes,” she says with a hesitant voice. “I put it on your desk.”

  “Desk...” I mutter, tossing the cup on the coffee table and dashing to my desk.

  “Where?”

  “On top of the stack of books.”

  “I can’t find it,” I say.

  Frantic, I glance around, looking for it. My eyes fly to the open window, and then back to the desk.

  I kneel and look for it under the desk.

  “It must be there,” Rebecca says.

  I finally spot it.

  “I got it,” I say, picking it up.

  I rise to my feet.

  “What did he say to you?” I ask, flipping the envelope and examining the handwriting.

  “Did he say my name?”

  “Yes.”

  My arm falls limp.

  “He said he had a message for Tess Sandoval. He also wanted to make sure you are the one who gets the envelope.”

  A pain grows in my chest as I crash into my chair.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. That was it.”

  “Okay. Thank you so much. Have a wonderful evening...” I say, my voice trailing off.

  “You too, Miss.”

  I hang up and slide the phone onto my desk, my gaze set on the flowers.

  I still don’t know how they got here.

  A suspicion rams through me. I leap out of my chair and dash out of my office. For the next fifteen minutes or so, I check every room in the house and every window.

  Everything seems to be in order.

  The last stop is the main door.

  I open it and check the lock. There are no signs of forced entry or signs of that someone tampered with.

  Sweat collars my neck.

  I go back to my room, the beautiful camellias and the padded envelope waiting for me on my desk. I flip the envelope again.

  There’s one word handwritten on it.

  My first name.

  Tess.

  Carefully, I slit it open with a letter opener.

  A small piece of paper falls from it. I pick it off the floor.

  A card with a web address rests on my palm. There’s also a password. I pick up the laptop from the desk and take a seat on the couch.

  I itch to type that web address while a voice in my head screams at me not to do it.

  I breathe slowly, rolling the air in and out. I even loosen my belt and tug at my robe. Why am I so afraid?

  With shaky fingers, I type the address. A window opens, prompting me to punch in the password.

  I do just that and get through without a hitch. A clip begins to play that very moment.

  It’s the exact video that I’ve seen before.

  My hand flies to my mouth as I grapple with a new realization.

  Oh, my God.

  Who is this man?

  “How is it?” I ask, setting a large bowl of salad on the table.

  “It’s perfect,” Anna says, taking a bite of her steak.

  “What kind of wine do you want? Red or white?”

  She flips her fork up.

  “White for me.”

  “Sounds good,” I say as I pour white wine into two glasses.

  I set one next to her plate before I take a seat across from her at the dining table.

  “When was the last time when we dined so ceremoniously?” she asks, smiling.

  A grin tickles my lips as well.

  “I know, right?”

  I cut a small piece of my food.

  “I haven’t cooked in a while too,” I add.

  “What about you and Allan?”

  “We eat out a lot. Or we order in.”

  “Nice life.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I say, keeping my eyes on my plate. “I used to do a lot of cooking from scratch. And baking. He loved it.”

  She stays quiet. I lift my gaze.

  “Back in the day... When we were younger,” I say, irony flashing in my voice.

  We share a peal of laughter.

  “Are things really that bad?”

  My smile slides off my lips.

  “I don’t know how bad they are, but one thing is for sure. It’s not as good as it’s supposed to be.”

  She sets her fork down and sips wine.

  “What happened?”

  I look down for a moment, staring blankly at my food.

  My eyes go up. She looks at me.

  “The man that I was talking to you about... He was at the art exhibition on Friday.”

  For a few seconds, I watch her eyebrows slowly arching.

  “The man from the park?”

  I flick my chin down.

  “Mmm-hmm. I tried to talk to him, and Allan saw me. ”

  “Oh… That’s not good.”

  “Yup.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Did Allan see him?”

  “No. I don’t think so, but it affected him greatly nonetheless. He doesn’t understand why I am so drawn to that man. I’m sure he thinks I’m nuts. But I was just curious. I am curious. He seems to be wherever I go, so I wanted to know who he is and why he follows me around if in fact he does that.”

  “Did you find out?”

  I shake my head.

  “No. I couldn’t get to him, but I got his name from a valet. Sebastien Rockford.”

  She places her glass on the table and looks at me intrigued.

  “That’s it?”

  I nod.

  “Have you looked him up?”

  “Mmm-hmm. But I didn’t find out much. There’s a Rockford Corporation founded by his father, Gerald Rockford who passed away a couple of years back. Sebastien is the only heir. There are no siblings. There is no Mrs. Rockford either. I mean his mother.”

  I look down.

  “Anyway,” I say, picking a slice of cucumber from the plate. “I found no pictures of him. So, he’s still very much a mystery to me.”

  She leans back in her seat, looking at me baffled.

  “Why has he been around you so much?”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s only a c
oincidence. Maybe it’s my mind trying to connect all these sightings and come up with some sort of explanation. I don’t know. But then there are a lot of little details that follow some sort of pattern. He’s always somewhere near me, but I can never get a glimpse of his face or approach him for that matter. He always leaves before I get to him. Like that day at the restaurant, and last Friday at the art exhibition. I hadn’t seen him inside before I spotted him in front of the building, and then I thought he left along with the woman he was with when I saw him again. Alone. He was standing by his car as if he was waiting for me. That’s when Allan saw us. The moment Allan called me, the man smiled, turned around, climb into his car and left. I don’t know if he pulled away because of Allan or if he would’ve left anyway. He always smiles at me and seems to be waiting for me. It feels as if he permanently knows where I am. I cannot resist him for some reason, and that’s what drove Allan crazy. He picked up on that thing too. ”

  “That’s bad,” she mutters.

  “Yes, it is. Allan and I had an argument that night on our way back. I couldn’t make it up to him, not then, and not throughout the weekend. He left angry with me, and when I talked to him today he didn’t seem to be any better.”

  “But why? Nothing happened,” she says.

  “For one, he thinks I have a mental issue.”

  She starts to laugh.

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Yes, it is. But it’s easier to rationalize it that way. And then, he thinks I’m fascinated with this man.”

  “Are you?”

  A few moments of silence tick by.

  Her stare burns my face.

  I slowly nod.

  “Yes. I am curious about him.”

  “That’s not the same as being fascinated with him.”

  “Perhaps I am. I don’t know. I feel a pull toward him, and it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt, but I can’t explain it.”

  Her eyes flicker with concern.

  I raise my hand.

  “I know. I know... I shouldn’t feel that way. I’m married for fuck’s sake,” I say, my frustration spilling out.

  “I don’t think it has to do with that,” she quietly says.

  Her eyes hold my gaze as she continues.

  “I’m in love with Dani, but I never felt that way. Even before him, I have never experienced that kind of feeling. That’s why I don’t think it has to do with the circumstances you are in but rather him. This man.”

  I study her expression for a few moments.

  “What would you do if you were in my place?” I ask, wracked with guilt.

  “I don’t think I’d be able to do anything differently. I have a curious nature as well. I’d keep my eyes and ears open. Maybe he shows up again. I’d probably try to talk to him.”

  “That’s what I wanted to do as well.”

  “But I wouldn’t want to put a dent in Allan’s trust either.”

  “Trust me. I don’t want that,” I say rising to my feet.

  I collect the plates from the table.

  “Do you want dessert? I have blueberry pie.”

  “Mmm... Yes, please.”

  I spent a few minutes loading the dishwasher before I pull two small deserts plates from a cabinet and cut two slices of pie.

  “Do you want a scoop of ice cream as well?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  I bring them back to the table. We get a taste of the delicious dessert in silence.

  “I think I hit a rough patch with Allan,” I say after a moment.

  She glances at me but doesn’t comment.

  “Yup. I never thought it would happen so soon, though,” I say, smiling bittersweet. “We just celebrated our three-year anniversary this summer. And I never thought it would happen because of me.”

  I bring the glass of wine and take a sip, blankly staring at my plate.

  “It takes two to tango,” she says.

  I shift my gaze to her.

  “Yes, it does, but he’s done nothing wrong,” I murmur, drowning in regret.

  12

  TESS

  “Miss?”

  I raise my eyes from my computer.

  The man peeks through the open door.

  “I’m done,” he says.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask, pushing out of my chair and rounding my desk.

  “One fifty.”

  “Is cash okay?”

  “Yes.”

  I hand the man the money, and he writes me a receipt.

  “This one is a better lock,” he says, giving me the spare keys.

  “I’m sure it is. Thank you for coming on such short notice,” I say, smiling.

  He picks up his toolbox and walks out of my office, heading to the exit. I follow him. He turns around one last time and gives me a soft nod before he vanishes down the street.

  I hold the door open and peer at the park for a few seconds before I step outside.

  The air is crisp and smells like the damp ground, dead leaves, and smoke coming from the fireplaces. Bright sunlight washes down the street, revving up the colors.

  There’s not a cloud in sight. It’s a perfect day for jogging.

  I go back inside the house only for a few moments to change my clothes and tie my hair back. I saunter out of the closet, sporting athletic shoes, jogging pants, and a hooded cotton top.

  From the wall table in the hallway, I scoop up my pocketbook, my phone, and my new keys. I walk out, lock the door, turn around and fill my lungs with fresh air.

  My nostrils flare with pleasure.

  It’s a beautiful day, I muse, as I run my gaze up and down the street.

  The road is empty.

  Energized, I walk down the stairs and pace briskly to the corner of the block. I cross the street, enter the park and start jogging. Kids and dogs play in the grass while people sit on the benches, soaking up the sun.

  I run into a couple of joggers, but other than that I see no one else jogging on the alleys. Thirty minutes later, I stop on the other side of the park, catching my breath not far from the exit.

  Panting, I run a hand through my hair and untie my ponytail.

  It feels so much better.

  I glance across the street.

  Two people walk out of a small coffeehouse that sits across the street with a bright red neon sign hung above the door. The place must be new. I don’t remember seeing it before.

  It looks nice with its few tables sprawled on the sidewalk, and the windows shadowed by red and white canopies, a bunch of flowers splashing green and scarlet on the windowsills.

  I check the time. 11:15 AM. I could use a break.

  I could sit down with a cup of coffee, and start working on the outline of my first book.

  Invigorated, I exit the park. I wait for the streetlights to turn green before I rush across.

  A car waits for me, getting ready to take a left turn. Something draws my eyes to the dark windows. My gaze stays on it as it rolls past me.

  It takes a slow turn, as if purposely so, smoothly sliding by me. Eyes trained on the back window, I can’t stop my heart from hammering.

  The car is out of sight when I walk into that place.

  The coffeehouse is a small shop with chocolate brown leather benches, wooden tables, matching chairs and a gleaming espresso bar. They serve smoothies, cookies and muffins, protein bars and bottles of water.

  I order a strawberry and banana smoothie.

  Fingers wrapped around the plastic cup, I slide into a booth and take a seat near the window. Not far from me, a man has his nose stuck in a book.

  A laptop sits in front of him, a stack of books not far from him as well.

  Three tables over, an older man with rimless glasses reads a newspaper.

  Are people still doing that?

  I guess they are, I ponder, smiling behind my smoothie. He catches my gaze and gives me a small grin. He also waves at me.

  I do the same in response, and then I shift my eyes back to
the window.

  I can see the rooftop of my home in the distance. I can even spot my office window. Behind that small square of glass, my life was laid to rest.

  I’m a little bird in a beautiful cage.

  Cage... Cage?

  Why do I feel trapped?

  Think, Tess.

  I do.

  I’ve thought about it a lot, but I was never bold enough to come up with the answers.

  I don’t think there’s something inherently wrong. Not at a glance, of course. I wonder if Allan and I are nothing but one of those misfortunate couples. We are so perfect for each other and yet we can’t make things work out.

  What makes things work out? I wonder.

  My parents’ marriage didn’t work out. Not in the end, it didn’t. And there was nothing wrong with them as well. Seemingly, Allan and I continue the family history.

  Like us, my parents seemed to be made for each other. They spent years and years together without a hitch in their relationship or having the slightest problem.

  And then, one day, my dad decided that he wanted to try something new. A different life. A different woman. He blamed himself for what he did, but his remorse was not enough to stop him.

  When he left, none of us shed a tear. My mom moved on the fastest, hurrying to enjoy her newfound single status.

  Viola learned her lesson. She said, she’d never get married, no matter what. I did it anyway.

  Anyway.

  That’s not a good word when it comes to a lifelong commitment.

  Fuck it.

  I drink more smoothie.

  Allan was by far the best man for me. Calm, level-headed, patient, tender. I knew it even then. I knew how messed up my head was, and how my mind was working, driving me crazy.

  He didn’t mind it. He found it cute.

  All my quirks, and forgetfulness. All the ideas flying through my head at supersonic speed. Even then, he noted that I was processing things differently than anyone else. He knew I was getting drained by the feelings and sensations.

  Again. He didn’t mind it.

  No, no. Not at all. He even said that it added to my charm.

  But now he minds it. A lot, in fact. He gets frustrated and annoyed with everything that has to do with me. My life, my choices, and as of lately, my obsessions.

  Obsessions.

  My mind spins the concept for a moment. Why am I so obsessed with that mysterious man?

  Why is he obsessed with me? Or is he? I’d say he is.

  He likes to watch me from a distance. He seems to know my life. He teases me, and makes me want to go to him, only to pull away from me.